Vassall of Rome
by stilljustme
Summary: Tags to various episodes of season three, all about Micheletto.
1. Lullaby

**As with season three, Micheletto became my absolute favorite character of this show. I hadn't realized before there was so much in him besides being Cesare's closest servant – but wow, there is. Reviews are always very welcome.**

He had killed babies in their bed before, if their parents had paid him to do it. Those hadn't been his proudest deeds, but pride had long ago abandoned him.  
After thirteen days on the streets of Forlí, chased by dogs, freezing, hungry… so hungry, it had fled Micheletto. Something older, stronger had taken over his weak body: the unconditional will to survive. It made him able to get out of the city and into the woods. And from there on further… till he arrived at hell's entrance on earth, the house of demons, hidden as God's greatest temple. The irony of this was clear even to the assassin, but he could not care less. If God had even been, someone had certainly murdered him.

Death had become a close companion early in the assassin's life; his elder brother Paolo being killed by his wife's brother, his sister drowned in a flood, his parents choked to death on fever and poison… he had never found out who had paid for their death, nor what had happened to Paolo's little son.

The child had been of Giovanni's age when Micheletto had run for his life, leaving his name, his honor and his soul behind.

He had killed babies in their beds, and every time he did so, his nephew's face appeared before him. It was a nice alternation to look after Giovanni, to protect innocent life instead of killing it. The child did not know who he was nor how he earned his living. All he knew yet was that Micheletto was one of the people carrying him around and making him laugh; and that he sang for him when he wouldn't fall asleep without his mother.

He had turned to singing the children to sleep before he killed them. At least once in their life they should feel safe. Sometimes Micheletto even found comfort in his actions: whatever came after death, if anything, it could not be worse than being cast out and live the life he had lived.  
What good was a beating heart if there was nobody to give it to?

Giovanni lazily opened one eye, spotted the familiar red beard, and squealed with tired satisfaction before he nestled deeper in Micheletto's arms and fell asleep again.

Innocent of his mother's, uncle's and grandfather's sins.  
Unknowing poison, pain or loneliness.  
Safe and sound, as a child should be.

As he almost shyly kissed the infant's forehead Micheletto swore to himself that it would stay that way.


	2. The same

**3x4 "The Banquet of chestnuts". Quotes from the episode are in italics.**

It was the first time he left the city on his own for more than a year, and his horse seemed as thrilled about it as himself, galloping through the fresh autumn air, mud and grass hurtling from under the hooves. Later on he would have to slow down and leave it behind, but at the moment speed was more important than secrecy. Versucci had more than a whole day in advance, and his age would not slow him down as much as the pope seemed to think.  
Micheletto had ceased to wonder about the Borgia's condescending and misprizing others. The pope was not much younger than the former cardinal, and still weak from the poison, but he was sure that his arm was longer than the legs of a man who ran for his life.

It didn't matter, anyway. Micheletto had not earned his master's trust by failure.  
Versucci had decided to avenge himself, probably the first act of cunning in his life. Now he would pay for it. It was an easy enough equation to solve.

No guards greeted the assassin as he entered the old bathhouse in the morning. This, and the fact that the abbess had pointed him the way without further questions confirmed his suspicion. Versucci was waiting for him.

It was not until he saw the water reddening underneath the old man's body that Micheletto realized just _how_ cunning the former cardinal had become.

"You have found me?"  
"Yes, my lord." Seeing that his work was already done, Micheletto stopped in the door. A feeling of respect for the man awoke but he forced it down, an action so often used it had become an instinct. Suppressing his emotions came natural, like breathing. Still, the recklessness of Versucci astonished him.

"And the pope? What did he say? Was he hurt?" The weak voice grew greedy.  
Micheletto straightened. _"Did you want to hurt him?"_  
_"Yes."_

A short wisp of relief filled the assassin. This was not a man he needed to respect. He was just as cruel as the family he had accused.  
The family Micheletto had sworn his life, his death and what little was left of his soul.

"_He laughed."_


	3. Heart

**For 3x5 - The wolf and the lamb**. **  
Coming late, but: cbear - thank you very, very much for your reviews and thoughts.**

"You will protect my sister from every harm. You will be her shadow as you are mine now, you will be her eyes, her ears and her sword if need be."  
The command was simple enough, and spoken with such urgency that even if Micheletto had come to Rome only yesterday he would have understood the significance of the order. Serving various men throughout Italy had proved to him that everyone, how high he might think himself, had a weakness – something or someone his world centered on. None would call it "weakness" in his own case, but technically that was exactly what it was. And Cesare's weakness was his sister, the only person on earth he would not sacrifice for his family's and his own sake.  
Or so Micheletto and, as her tear-dulled glance revealed, Lucrezia herself had expected. But now they were here, cut off from… home.  
Home. Another weakness most people carried, but different from his master's love for the duchess of Bisceglie, this weakness was commonly accepted as a virtue. Patriotism, they called it, and let their armies fight over acres of land in the name of home. And the armies fought – because dying under a sword's blow was a gentler fate than to walk around homelessly.

After leaving Forlí Micheletto had buried the yearning for home deep inside his heart, but it had eaten its way up quickly enough. A painfully pounding emptiness that made it impossible to live yet impossible to die.

When he had offered to work for the Pope's son Micheletto had thought about saving his own life, at the very moment but also for the following months – serving the mightiest brought the most enemies but still the most security – but not of home.  
Not a second had he then dared to think about such a thing.  
And maybe, the assassin realized as he looked down into the courtyard, if he wasn't sent away with Lucrezia, he would never have felt so deeply that he had a home after all.  
And that it was Rome.

"_There are some who even doubt I have a heart, my lady"_ he had told Cesare's sister on the way. He had not told her then that for some time he himself had doubted it.  
Well, things had changed, and then they had changed again. As much as Micheletto appreciated Cesare's trust in him – to assign him with Lucrezia's safety was the biggest proof of that – it felt wrong to be in Naples.

The creakingly opened door ended his broodings. With a light bow the bodyguard-turned assassin let his lady take his place.  
Lucrezia's eyes, sharp now though red from crying, at once flew down to Ferdinand. The king didn't seem to notice his guest but was entirely absorbed in shooting arrows at straw figures – an occupation good enough for boys, not for men who ought to be trained for war. And especially not for kings who ought to lead their men in war. But such an ideal leader was another dream Micheletto had forgotten long ago.

For some moments he stood silently in the shadow of the Pope's daughter, his glance flying restlessly between the people down and at the stairs and the lady. Cesare had not even tried to threaten him should he fail in his job to protect Lucrezia, because he dared not imagine anything happening to his… sister. Micheletto found his glance wandering to the young woman's neck and breasts and quickly looked away. It was not this sight that caused his blood to quicken but the thought of the lips who had kissed the soft skin. It was not his to judge, but the sharp pain that had stung Micheletto when he had seen Lucrezia stepping out of Cesare's bed chamber after her wedding night was enough. Without ever binding it to words he knew what had happened.

Lucrezia was no longer just his master's sister. She was his lover also, the purest form of love mingled with its most natural form.  
Cesare had given him a part of his soul to care for, and Micheletto would defend and protect it – her – until his heart would stop beating.

"_Have you a child, Micheletto?"_ Giving up the attempt of killing Ferdinand through hateful stares, Lucrezia looked at the man her brother had given to her.  
Micheletto bowed again. _"No, I have none."_  
She nodded slowly as if it was a surprise. How cruel the world had become since her gentle father had become the holy father of everyone. Her only friend, if she could ever call Micheletto that, was someone who would never understand her. A man, and a primitive one, yet Cesare trusted him. Micheletto had helped him kill Juan, and God knew how many more. Having him around reminded Lucrezia of her brother, almost as if he was near. She had to keep this man close, as a symbol for the man she loved more than almost anything else in the world.

Almost. Not even the memory of Cesare's arms could drive Giovanni off her mind. _"But if you had…"  
"I would bind them to me with iron bands and love them to death and beyond. And I would make tremble everyone who dared to come between us."_ The rapid, ardent answer surprised her. Then she remembered. Whenever Cesare would visit and the nurse was gone, it was Micheletto who carried her son around and made him giggle or sleep. She had ignored that, shying away from the crudeness she had assumed in that man. Now, though…  
_"So you have a heart." _Lucrezia's voice had lost the fake lightness she had broken in since her first marriage, and as she looked at her brother's man – her man now – she let down her guard to where words were just a cage. The pain she felt knew no words, just tears and trembling fingers if she didn't hold herself together.  
Like now.  
With a gentleness she would not have expected Micheletto took her slightly trembling hand in his and kissed it as he knelt down in front of her. _"I must have." _His voice was rough with what Lucrezia was sure now to be the same loneliness she felt. _"It is the thought of the child kept from you his mother that makes it break."_  
Not only this, she thought as she nodded slowly, and wondered how she had not seen it before. Perhaps because she had fought so hard not to see her own similar feelings. It was wrong, forbidden, damned by God and the people.  
Neither mattered to Lucrezia right now.

If Micheletto's heart belonged to Cesare, the better for her.  
She did not speak her wish nor veiled it in a glance as she had done often enough with men. Her hand on his arm would have to do – her hand that had touched Cesare, had stirred and had made him moan with pleasure.  
Would the image of it stir the assassin? Enough to become _her_ assassin, too?

"Then we share the same love" she whispered, still not meeting Micheletto's eyes. "And the same loss."  
Micheletto straightened. "My lady."

And Lucrezia smiled – sweetly, as she hoped, and not as triumphant as she felt.

Another man that was hers.


	4. A thin line

The door was carelessly ajar, breathing out silence to the hallway. Micheletto froze at the corner, taking in the situation. He didn't need to enter the room to know it was empty.  
What he didn't know was if Lucrezia had left voluntarily or if Ferdinand had finally had enough of her pleading and bargaining for Giovanni.  
It wouldn't be wise to hurt Alfonso's bride, less wise even to hurt the Pope's daughter. But the king of Naples wasn't wise, and the Pope was far away, so what was the most likely place for his lady to be kept?

Anger pushed on his heartbeat as Micheletto quietly followed the hallway to the stairs that led to the great hall. Further down were the dungeons, the entrance to them hidden behind a statue. These rooms were hardly half the size of the dungeons beneath the papal palace, but that didn't mean they were any less cruel. And there were many ways to torture a person without leaving marks on their skin. Lucrezia Borgia was used to intrigues and injustice by now, but she had never known fear for her life, or hunger, or the smell of burnt flesh. Whether it was your own or your neighbor's, you never forgot that smell.  
The dungeons were dark but that didn't mean a thing. Darkness could be torture as well.

Without sun or stars all plants looked the same, and she had no idea how the herb she was looking for smelled. But she didn't dare light the lantern yet, not with the walls so close. Walls and bricks. It was almost funny how every wall had its weakness. Was it so hard to build a defense that didn't waver?  
A cracking noise made her jerk. If her heart beat any faster she would probably faint, and in the morning Ferdinand would find her when he went hunting. "Will I be your prey or will you be mine first?" she whispered to herself as she knelt down in the high grass and finally lightened the candle. She had to take the risk if she wanted this done right. If even cantarella could be rendered innocuous, she had to be extremely careful with this poison. She had to be sure what she was doing… and better take more than less.  
"Finally." As she saw the green capsules close to her knee Lucrezia felt an urge to pray. It brought a hysterical laughter over her lips - that being so close to commit a sin she felt so close to heaven.  
She was a Borgia, she would not be defeated. And she would have her son with her.

When she saw the shadow coming up from behind it was too late to move. Frozen Lucrezia stood as the man took the lantern from her hand and held it up.  
It was obvious Micheletto's relief was as big as hers.  
"God" she sighed, wondering how she still hadn't fainted. The green death in her hand seemed to make her more alive. "Micheletto, you frightened me."  
His voice was collected. _"I've been charged with your safety, my lady. It was your empty room that frightened me." _  
She smiled, but much less spiteful than she would have to any other man. "I didn't mean to frighten you, my knight. I just felt the need for fresh air."  
Micheletto frowned. "I didn't notice there was a difference between the air inside or outside the walls."  
Lucrezia tensed. Was he being stupid or actually mocking her? "Well, I did. There are some… advantages of free nature. And as far as I remember I am nobody's prisoner."  
"And you'll never be, my lady, while I am with you. I promise." Micheletto bowed deeply.  
When he stood straight again his glance fell on Lucrezia's fist, and his voice became even gentler. "You should not do that."  
Anger at herself brought tears into her eyes but she forbade them to fall. "I want my son, Micheletto. He belongs to his mother, and I will have him and protect him! You said you would understand that."  
"I do, my lady, as much as a man can understand such things." Micheletto frowned. There was a thin line between wishing for a man's death and asking for it, and as far as he knew Lucrezia had not yet crossed that line. Cesare had commanded him to be her sword, not her knife in the dark. Then again, a blade was a blade. If being the knife meant being protecting her from bringing herself into harm's way, he would do it.  
If she asked him to.  
"Please." He held out his hand, trying to read her expression through the dancing shadows of the flame.  
Lucrezia hesitated, but only for a moment. Then she dropped the herbs into the assassin's waiting hand, following them with her eyes. "I want my son."  
She looked up at him, and in her eyes he recognized himself – and the moment when he had crossed the line a lifetime ago.  
"My lady?"  
"I will have my son, Micheletto. This way or another."

The king of Naples had been a plague when alive, but he died easily. There was no cry, no hatred, just terror – and the astonishment of having underestimated Rome.  
Lucrezia was doing well playing the surprised relative. She didn't bother faking grief, though, and the doubts about calling for Giovannni vanished as soon as they had come. It had been a moment of regret, a moment of realizing what she had done – ordered a man's death. A king's death.  
Micheletto knew better than to react to it, and before sunset Lucrezia had ordered her husband's men to bring her child to Naples.  
Before leaving for Rome Pietro d'Alcagia, captain of Alfonso's guard, had found himself pushed against a wall, a knife at his throat.  
"You will bring the child here safely and happily. If there is any sign of illness or bad treatment on your high lady's son, you will pay for it. I will make you bleed, and I will slaughter your children before your eyes." He had rarely made this threat before, and sworn to himself never to make it true, but d'Alcagia didn't need to know that. The soldier had no love for Alfonso and less for his wife, and so far he had never left Naples. The journey alone would be hard for the captain – the least Micheletto could do was making sure he would not forget his home.

"When will they arrive?" Knowing she would soon be reunited with her child had turned Lucrezia into a child as well.  
"Soon."  
"I want Giovanni to attend Ferdinand's funeral. He was a great king, after all. He should have a worthy escort to his tomb." Lucrezia smiled at her own voice. Soon everything would be perfect - she would have her son, and the man she loved, and she would stay here in Naples, far away from the ambitions of her family… far away from Cesare.  
Here, maybe she could make an honest and decent living.

Then again, she was a Borgia.

The morning of Ferdinand's funeral dawned red like blood. Red like Alfonso's eyes as he dressed. Despite everything his cousin had said and done, he seemed to have loved him. "Family", Lucrezia murmured bitterly as she wound ribbons of black silk through her hair. She had expected to be happier today, seeing her enemy buried. The monument above his corpse would be a monument of her first victory, but it didn't feel like a win yet.  
More than once she caught herself looking out of the window, searching what little she could see of the horizon. Ten days. More than enough to get to Rome and back, even with a child, wasn't it? And Giovanni was healthy and strong for his age, so what was taking them so long?  
"My love?" Alfonso's voice lacked the usual gentleness. Even without suspecting anything he knew his wife would shed no tear over the late king of Naples.  
Lucrezia nodded absentmindedly and they went down the stairs, her arm lightly touching but not feeling his arms. She felt nothing, recently, nothing but the emptiness in her arms and heart.

Then she saw him.  
Clothed in white, staring at the new world around him with big eyes, from time to time moving his fingers as if to reach for anything. Lucrezia ran forward, cutting Prince Raphael's way (and therefore protocol) as she raced to Micheletto. When she took Giovanni from his arms Lucrezia realized how gentle his movements had become, how deep and kind the expression in his face was. There was no doubt, she knew with a small sudden spark of jealousy: Micheletto adored her son. In a way he would never adore her, maybe not even Cesare. She would not have to tell him to watch over Giovanni because Micheletto would rather die than let anything happen to the boy – without him ever uttering a word.

"Thank you" the young woman whispered as she rocked her son in her arms. Giovanni was fine. And he was here.  
Micheletto smiled in relief as Giovanni nestled against his mother's arms, yawned happily and looked around again. There was a whole new world to discover, a world of black-clothed people with solemn, sullen faces.  
"Always" he said, directed rather to the child than the mother. In the promenade of death it seemed like a miracle to have a child with them, a little piece of the future. Someone worth staying in Naples for.  
Till his master would call for him again, and Micheletto would follow.


	5. Goodbye

"So you return to Rome." Her chin was high but she couldn't avoid a note of jealousy in her voice.  
"Yes, my lady. I will leave at once. Is there anything left I can do for you?"  
Without turning around Lucrezia knew that Micheletto was bowing slightly when he answered. And that he would remain that way, head down, back bent just a little, for as long as she held her silence.  
No, not really. Eventually he would stretch his back, turn around and go – leave her for Cesare who commanded his assassin home.

Home. The softness of that word made Lucrezia feel weak with longing, and she straightened up even more. This was her home now, the court of Naples. She didn't need anybody, not even her brother, to shape a castle around her. She could live anywhere, and be happy, as long as she was with her son. She didn't need to be influenced and played with by her family, not again.  
"The farer away, the better."

"My lady?"  
Lucrezia shook her head. "Nothing, Micheletto. Please bring my greetings to the Holy Father and to my mother, and to Giulia Farnese. Tell they're always welcome to visit me in my realm." This time, she let him feel the bitterness in her voice on purpose, even though it wasn't directed at him.  
She turned around just in time to see the edge of a smile on her bodyguard's face. He had understood.

"And what do you want me to tell your brother?"

Suddenly Lucrezia was close to tears. She had seen before in Micheletto's eyes that he knew about her and Cesare, knew that their love was somewhat stronger than the church allowed for brother and sister to be. Funny how the children of the Holy Father of Christianity were damned by mother church.  
Still, from what she else had seen in his eyes, Micheletto's heart was damned as well.

"Tell Cesare" her tongue slipped almost carelessly over the name, having whispered it so often at night, "that I am going to be lonely without your company. Tell him his godson is healthy and happy and waiting for his uncle to visit him. And tell him…" She halted as she saw the discomfort in Micheletto's eyes.  
"Am I asking too much, Micheletto?"  
"Of course not, my lady." But his look betrayed him.  
Lucrezia hid the guilt she felt creeping up under a knowing smile. "You don't like me playing with you."  
Micheletto's face hardened. "_Are_ you playing with me, my lady?"  
A chill went through the air, and it took Lucrezia a moment to realize that it was caused by the man's low voice. Beneath the devotion there was a threat, calmer and deadlier than every boasting of Ferrante or Giovanni Sforza.  
This man was trained to murder.

"Forgive me, my lady. I didn't mean to frighten you." Micheletto caught her thoughts before they ended and gently took her hand to kiss it. "I am your servant as I am your brother's."  
He was avoiding his master's name when it was possible, at least in front of Lucrezia. Without really understanding the feelings he had for Cesare, Micheletto knew that his lady would know them the moment his mouth tasted the name. Some words, eve great ones, were easily spoken. Heaven, hell, sin, those notions had lost their gravity.  
But names were different.

"I know." Noticing that the assassin was turning into himself, Lucrezia dropped her façade and placed her hand on his arm. Surprised, Micheletto looked up.  
"My lady?"  
She felt herself smiling at the anxiety in his voice, and intensified the touch. "I know enough of the world to be thankful for a man as loyal and brave as you" she said as gently as she could. "I know you will protect Cesare as you protected me, and my son."  
"Giovanni is lucky to have a mother as fierce as you are" he said, "may I…" he halted, hands closed to fists. In a matter of seconds every threat had gone out of the assassin, leaving him shy and strangely lost.

Those things love could do to a person. Lucrezia shook her head, wondering how similar they were. Knowing that Micheletto loved Cesare and Giovanni as much and in the same way that she did, however, didn't make her jealous. It gave her peace.

Micheletto's head went deeper as he mistook the gesture for an answer. "I am sorry, my lady. I will…"  
"Oh for once, Micheletto!" Touched by his devotion she had to laugh so she wouldn't cry. "I wish you would call me Lucrezia. Just once."  
He frowned. "I do not think this is fit for someone like me."  
She sighed, only half playing frustrated. "If it pleases you. But it certainly is fit that as a servant to me and my son you tell him goodbye as well." Before Micheletto could react she turned around and lifted Giovanni out of his crib.

The boy frowned at being woken up, but his irritation turned to delight when Lucrezia placed him into Micheletto's arms. The assassin's face had changed completely. He seemed much younger now, and his expression made Lucrezia realize that they weren't as similar she had just believe. There was something that would always part Micheletto from her, from Cesare – or maybe it was the other way round, maybe it was something in her and Cesare that would always part them from the rest of the world.

Peace. She had seen it on his face before, the night after her father had almost died from Cantarella. She had been terrified then, worrying too much for his life to even think of any dangers to her own.  
And then the lights had gone out in the court, and shadows had come running through the grass. They were moving fast, but not as fast as her heart beat when she had seen the reflection of the moon in a blade.  
_The shame of her Borgia blood. _Whoever had tried to kill her father wanted to kill the whole family.

In that night, Lucrezia had become a child again, crying in her mother's skirts as Vanozza had led her to the back chamber and barred the doors, hushing her grandson as well as her daughter. Giovanni had cried, with exhaustion, cold and pain because Lucrezia had held him too tightly without even noticing it. She would not let go of him, but with him in her arms she knew they both would die.

Cesare had not even for one second looked at his nephew when they had found the women, nor at his mother. His eyes were undressing his sister with both sorrow and lust, and she had found herself trembling with more than just fear. Giovanni in her arms was heavy all of a sudden as he had fallen asleep at last.  
Lucrezia loved her son with all her heart, but in this moment she needed to feel Cesare's arms around her. The first instinct was to hand her son to her mother, but Vanozza's eyes had been big with shock now that everything was over.  
There was another pair of eyes in the dark. Micheletto. The mysterious brutal man Cesare had hired after almost being killed by him. More instinct than mind made Lucrezia put the baby into his waiting arms.  
The man's eyes and face became gentle as once as he rocked him in his arms, smiling. When Lucrezia finally ran into her brother's embrace she knew that her son was as safe as she was now.  
Only moments later Vanozza took Giovanni, and he started to cry again.

Lucrezia had tried to forget that night and the shame it carried. She had not fought but run away.  
Looking back, though, it had not been the worst decision to make.  
She sat down on the balcony, watching Micheletto making Giovanni laugh as the church bells rang. Micheletto tensed but never stopped smiling as he started humming. Giovanni seemed to know the melody, yawned happily and closed his eyes again. Lucrezia closed hers as well, floating away with the soft, sad tune. Eventually Micheletto started to sing, an old Italian song she had never heard before. Sad, as all great stories were, but not without beauty.

She opened her eyes when something rustled next to her, just in time to see Micheletto laying Giovanni down in his crib and kissing the boy's forehead. When he looked at Lucrezia, he was still beaming. "Thank you, my… Lucrezia."  
She smiled. "I thank you, Micheletto. We both." Rather abruptly she extended her hand, and he kissed it again. Another thing they had in common, it seemed.  
Neither liked farewells.

"Goodbye."  
"Goodbye."


	6. Pascal

**Just a short one again… Micheletto's first encounter with Pascal. I don't think Micheletto was ever in love before or it wouldn't have destroyed him. Just my explanation.  
I'm not sure if there's much more about those two to come, in any case don't expect any explicit scenes.**

The man was burning. Didn't they see?  
He was aflame. Filled with light, white and hot and… pure. Purer than Micheletto had thought possible. It was shining right through the young man, illuminating everything around him.

The assassin hardly felt his limbs moving. His body seemed to belong to someone else as he dismounted and made his way past the soldiers, drawn to the heavenly light. Maybe he would die if he went further, consumed like a moth when it came too close to the flame.  
But if he kept away from the light, he would die as well. Die in a world of coldness and dark, where the devil took many forms. Sometimes he slipped into Cesare, sometimes into the Borgia's enemies.  
Sometimes Micheletto felt him inside himself, calling for blood, for vengeance, for death to all who had ever wronged him.  
Death to all of them, except maybe for one. One guilty man's blood he could not think to shed, not even in his darkest and loneliest dreams:  
Cesare.

Micheletto forced his feet to stop right next to his master, his face at one height with the Borgia's knee. Cesare carried no light within him, he was a man surrounded by velvet and shadows. Heavenly light would be consumed itself if it dared to get close to his man. The first son of the earthly father of all Christians, the greatest warrior of their time. Cesare had forged his own halo, with passion, greed and steel.  
And Micheletto had always been his deepest and truest shadow.

"Who are you, boy?" Cesare's voice was loud on the empty piazza.  
The man straightened slightly before he bowed. "My name is Pascal, your grace. I am but a secretary to the prince."  
"But not a good one, if he chose to leave you like that" Cesare smirked, obviously unaware of the light around the man that was growing hotter and brighter with every second.  
Micheletto looked down, for fear of becoming blind as well as for fear that the angel – for what else could he be? – would see in his face everything had done, every bad deed.

This man, Micheletto realized as his head was pulled up as if by magic, his eyes longing to meet Pascal's even if it meant his death, had the power to send him right into hell.

Or to save him.


	7. Hunger

**Dearest cbear, since I can't tell you otherwise: thank you for your amazing reviews and thoughts. You understand Micheletto so well – better than I do, I guess. Thank you for the insight to this character.**

They halted on top of the Viminal Hill and looked down at the city. The dome of Saint Peter was glistening in the sun, the air in the streets visibly blurring with heat.  
"Home, sweet home."  
A second too late, Micheletto turned his head. "You don't seem to be pleased."  
"Don't I?" Cesare threw a glance at his servant, filled with almost the same contempt he had for the city he was coming back to. "And why is that, Micheletto? Why am I not… happy to be back within the Pope's reach?" He shook his head as a bitter grin appeared on his lips. His voice, lower now, seemed to dip each word with poison. "An old man sitting on a throne of gold and corpses, in a rotten city of murderers and thieves… I'd really feel sorry for him if I didn't know him to be the worst of all."

Micheletto frowned. "My lord?"  
The corners of his mouth twitching as if he tasted something foul, Cesare brought his horse back on the path and briskly drove it on.

Micheletto stayed for a moment, enjoying the sunlit city before him. Home.  
A rotten city, yes, but still beautiful. A monument of humanity's will to bear comparison with god.

It seemed strange to him that Cesare should be so brooding and angry now, when Micheletto was happier than he had ever been.

As he hurried to follow his master he found it hard, for the first time in years, to keep a straight, blank face. He was going to kill himself with it, and worse, he might kill Pascal with it.

"_If you're here when I return… I would like that." _It was the first wish he had uttered in years, and it had sounded wrong in his ears. Micheletto was used to orders and curses – he had hardly recognized his own voice when he had said his goodbye to Pascal.  
But you don't order an angel to come to you. Especially when you've become more demon than man, so firmly grasped in the devil's claw as Pascal seemed to fly freely over the sky, high above Rome.  
Micheletto's jaw clenched as he could hear a part of himself laughing contemptuously. If he should find happiness with this man, it would only be proof that there truly was neither god nor heaven, no justice to condemn him, nothing after this life worth praying for. It would be proof that Pascal was no angel because angels didn't exist. If they did, and if God did, how could he see the assassin and not immediately punish him? The dead were dead, and maybe their souls couldn't haunt Micheletto, but their eyes certainly did. Almost every night he woke up, startled by nightmares, memories, that wouldn't go away. Not even in Pascal's arms had he been safe from them.  
He would never be safe, or free, from what he had done. And this dream of lust and longing and maybe more – it would soon be over. It had to, had to end like all good things in life did.

Micheletto urged his horse to go faster as his bitterness won over the sweet memory of his lover's face, his soft voice, his lean body. Angel or not, he certainly was not meant to be with the vile servant of a ruthless warrior who had only just found his appetite for power. There was no doubt that Cesare would soon find a way to leave Rome again, to fight another battle, besiege and conquer another city. And it wouldn't be for the wealth of the Pope anymore but for the honor of Cesare Borgia alone. Micheletto had seen the hunger in his master's eyes, a hunger that had driven himself to the Borgias years ago. It had been fear, yes, fear for his miserable life, but that hadn't been everything.  
The assassin could have killed Cesare at their first encounter, even without the dagger. He had chosen not to. He had chosen to follow this man through the darkest of nights, to bind his destiny to that of the Pope's son. A man at the threshold of becoming a demon, just like Micheletto himself had been years ago.  
It had never before occurred to him, or had he simply not wanted to think about it so thoroughly?  
Cesare's life had taken almost the same course as his own. After grief for the old life there had come fear for the new one. Once survival was assured, there had come a new hunger – a hunger of the soul and the mind, unbeknownst to the starving body. A hunger not only to survive but to live, and to live eternally – there were two ways of looking at the outcome of what he did, and both were motivated by religion. Funny how all things on earth came together in heaven or hell.  
Ancient gods, gods of war and violence and death, such gods as the people of Italy had prayed to before the romans had come (or so Cesare had told him, his eyes gleaming both condescending and fascinated) would accept every corpse Micheletto sent them as a sacrifice, and would add the years he stole his victims up to his own life. If he only ended enough lives, there would be no end to his life. He'd become a god in his own right, powerful and immortal.  
Certainly, it was this promise that drove Cesare through battles and against his father, and which must make Rome a prison: not only the Pope but officially also the one and only God of nowadays was watching him here, and neither was willing to see another god – or even another Borgia lord – in his own right.

For Micheletto, however, immortality was the worst curse, now more than ever. Of course, as a little boy he had dreamt of being invincible and untouchable, but that had been only a short moment of his life. Then death had embraced his family with suffocating, dark wings, and Micheletto's heart had broken into pieces, each shard sharp and poisonous, causing festering wounds in his whole being.  
He had wanted to survive, yes, had done everything in his power to stay alive – but one day his power wouldn't be enough, and he would finally give in to death and join his family. Strange enough, the more he came to enjoy his life, the less he was afraid of dying.  
If he died now, he would never know if Pascal had come for him. He would never see Giovanni grow up, but he would neither see him ill or wounded, would never see him die.  
There were worse things than death, and while for Cesare it seemed to be oblivion, for Micheletto it was the pain of losing the few people he hadn't been able to hinder from creeping into his heart.

The other idea of what happened to the assassin's soul every time he followed an order was the Christian one, a prospect of shame and eternal damnation. Hell, as if he hadn't had enough of that so far.

Micheletto wasn't entirely convinced of the existence of his soul, but if it did, he knew it to be maimed and dirtied by the lives he had taken. Being with Cesare, with Giovanni and even Lucrezia and lately Pascal, were the only things healing the wound inside him. He was a dog after all, a dog longing for a master, for someone to love and obey to. Someone to take care of him, to tell him what to do and give him a home. And punish him if he failed.

"Remind me to leave as soon as possible" his master murmured as they entered the city, at once encased in heat and the reek of too many people. The bitter line around his lips was gone, though, and by the time they saw the papal palace at the end of the street, he was smiling. With triumph, not with joy – obviously since Cesare had climbed the top of happiness, namely his sister, other pleasures of life had lost their sweetness. Micheletto knew that kind of hunger, too. Sometimes he thought it was all about hunger, about the searing pain indicating a loss that could never be mended. They were stripped of their wings to fly with the angels, what choice did they have but to become demons instead?

"I will, my lord. Though I don't think you will need me to."  
Cesare laughed, not whole-heartedly but honestly. "Rather not. But his Holiness will like it better if it comes from you." Again his voice dropped a few notes with contempt, but Micheletto knew it wasn't directed at him. "Why should that be?"

Cesare shook his head as he looked at the man he had for a long time trusted more than anybody else, except of course Lucrezia. Micheletto had changed since Milano, though he tried to hide it. Hidden to Cesare was only the reason for the assassin's changed behavior, and while he didn't doubt Micheletto's loyalty it angered him to know the man wasn't fit for service. He was riding into a pit filled with blood, surrounded by lions, behind him was a lost battle he longed to undo and at his side was a man he had known once.  
Cesare urged his horse on. "My father won't accept that I'm not only a better son but also a better warrior than Juan could ever have been" he said, so coolly it sent shivers down Micheletto's spine. As much as Cesare loved Lucrezia he had hated his brother and the freedom he had enjoyed. Micheletto hadn't spent one thought over the arrogant idiot who had threatened Giovanni's life, but talking about the dead like _that_ didn't seem right to him, either. Then again, who was he to question his master's feelings?  
Weren't his own, right now, greater sins than any murder Cesare could conduct?

"I am honored by the Holy Father's and your esteem" he said smugly, "but when it comes down to war all I can do is following happily where your lead."  
"Then pray you soon will." Cesare waved at the crowd gathered in front of the palace. "In five days you will bring me news about fights in Forlí. I need at least money if he won't give me his army!" The helpless anger had returned, and Micheletto knew better than to argue now. He dismounted his horse and lay the reigns in a waiting boy's hand, taking over Cesare's horse in turn. The pain Cesare felt every hour he was away from Lucrezia was heavier than all the gold they could get. No weapon, no power could make it up to the softness of lover's lips, the heat of their kisses, the musky smell of sun-damp skin.

Micheletto tensed at the horse's side. Confusing your own life with your master's usually was plainly stupid, but with the Borgias, stupid meant (as "intelligent", of course) dangerous. He knew he had to fight this new hunger, had to push Pascal out of his thoughts now – he wasn't there anyway, so he might just be in Milano or London or at some other end of the world.

"Micheletto."

Every thought of caution and pride melted in the radiating warmth of Pascal's voice. Micheletto felt tears come up in his eyes as he saw the young man leaning against the wall, only halfway trying to look busy.

"You came."  
"You asked me to." Pascal smiled lightly, as if it was normal to wish such a thing. "Rome is loud" he whispered, forcing Micheletto to bow towards him.

The assassin nodded shortly and walked towards the stables, wordlessly. An hour ago he had thought he was ready to die at any moment now that he was going to be happy.  
Now he had Pascal with him, and only five days before Cesare would force him to leave again. Not enough time.  
Roughly, Micheletto pressed the other man against the stone wall and kissed him, shivering with both passion and disbelief. He was here. He really was here.

"Why?" It couldn't be just the wish he'd made, it couldn't be.  
Pascal's smile didn't fade. "Maybe I want you too."

_Hunger_. It never ceased, especially not in the realms of the Borgias.

No time to lose.


	8. A life for a life

The sun had just crawled above the horizon when he opened his eyes, woken by an uncertain feeling of fear. Pascal was still asleep beside him, head buried in the crook of his arm. Even in sleep he looked beautiful, like a painting, frozen in time. Eternal. Untouchable.  
Micheletto bowed down closely to inspect his lover's face, admiring every inch of it.  
Despairing at every inch of it.  
Perfection.  
Pascal was never meant to be his, and even the assassin forgot it in the blessed hours between night and day, when they melted together and nothing, _nothing_ mattered anymore – once morning broke, he was Cesare's again.  
At night he belonged to an angel… at day to the devil. It would not take long till one of the flames he was dancing around would consume him.

Or till he would stumble, and crash into the fire, choking one of them.  
It was wrong.  
The rational side of him, the part that would follow Cesare Borgia unconditionally, sacrificing everything else, knew that it was wrong.  
A boy like Pascal might get bored by the hundreds of rich ladies adoring him, he might even get bored with the dozens of rich men adoring him. He might look for danger, for an adventure, for someone far beneath him. Someone like Micheletto.  
Their first time… it had been a gift of heaven, too much grace for him to deserve but he could have accepted it.  
If it had ended after that.

The shadows lost their darkness, and Micheletto leant back, staring at the lines and patterns the changing light painted onto Pascal's skin.

It was not love that he felt, for one could not love someone so high above himself. That was the reason he had not been able to love his former masters even if they had treated him like he was human (and many hadn't), the reason he had not been able to love Lucrezia – it was not only jealousy of the lady's firm hold of her brother's heart but because she seemed so _pure_, so strong and innocent in the whorehouse around her.  
Now he knew she was barely less cruel than Cesare to get what she needed, and what she needed was to protect an angel, just like Micheletto. Lucrezia's angel, the only pure thing in her life, was her son, and for him, she lived a life in between heaven and hell. The Borgia whore and the virgin mother at the same time, and he knew that without Cesare she would long have been broken.  
He could not envy her anymore, could not wish for brother and sister to stop seeing each other. Lucrezia had to be with Cesare, or she would not be strong enough to take care of her child. And Giovanni had to be protected, no matter how much Micheletto's heart broke. That boy's life was the only thing he'd set above his master, even above Pascal. Blinking away tears he didn't know a reason for, Micheletto swore to himself once again that Giovanni would have the life his mother wanted for him.  
And if it meant his death, it would be a better, purer one than anything he'd suffer for Cesare and Pascal.

It was the seventh day. Micheletto had already waited longer than Cesare had ordered to break the "news" about Forlí, he could not delay the message any longer.  
So far, Cesare had been busy enough negotiating with his father. The Pope had held one festival for the return of his son, but that was all, and everyone in Rome knew what that meant.  
Cesare had lost his father's grace. He had won many battles, had secured more land for the papal throne than anyone could have foreseen – more than, and that was the reason his father couldn't acknowledge it, Juan could ever have achieved.  
Cesare did not accept failure, but his father did not accept success. Rome was a rotten city indeed, and it became more rotten and dangerous with every day. With or without the papal army, they had to leave soon.  
Slowly, Micheletto shoved himself backwards, careful not to wake Pascal as he moved towards the stairs of the stable. He kept his gaze on the beautiful face, trusting his feet to find a noiseless way down again.

They failed.

It was merely a soft squeak, too low for Pascal to wake up. Too low to drown out Micheletto's suddenly thundering heart.  
It was paranoid, and nobody he knew would understand his reaction, but Micheletto had learnt the hard way to trust his instincts. He knew he hadn't heard that creak before, and that it came from the boar underneath his left knee. It had been moved.

He returned to Pascal's side, trembling with fear at the sight of the delicate collar bone, the fragility of the other's bones under the smooth skin.  
He would have to kill him. He knew it the moment he heard the wood squeaking, the moment he realized why Pascal had chosen him.  
He had betrayed himself. There were no angels. Only demons, and Micheletto was serving the greatest of them.  
Into death.

Micheletto had practiced long to keep a blank face in every situation, whether he was just strangling somebody or having a knife at his throat.  
Obviously, he had lost this ability. Cesare stood up as he saw Micheletto approaching, dismissing the men around him with a wave. "I'd say you look like you'd seen a ghost, but I'm pretty sure if they exist, you have already seen them. And they wouldn't upset you." His eyes were gleaming. Joy? Madness? Somehow it didn't seem to matter anymore. Nothing did.  
Micheletto didn't speak as he sat down, he wasn't sure he could. His insides were burning, his heart beating so fast he could feel it in his fingertips as he reached for a feather and a small torn piece of pergament.  
Cesare frowned but stayed quiet as Micheletto dipped the feather and then halted. A drop of ink fell onto the pergament.  
Another.

He could lie. It hadn't occurred to Micheletto before, but now it was clear. He could lie to Cesare, pretend his news were something different. He could still save Pascal – and doom his master, he did not doubt that. No matter what the nobles and teachers thought, he did not need the capacity to read to understand the meaning of the letters he had found.  
If he showed Cesare what he had seen, he would have to kill Pascal.  
If he killed Pascal, he would kill himself. There was no other way.  
If he didn't kill Pascal, however, Cesare would die.  
Micheletto started to draw.

* * *

"_Kill me, my lord. I beg you."  
_Cesare frowned. He knew Micheletto was softer than he let on, but he had not expected this. It seemed like his fearless, merciless assassin had lost his heart to that spy.  
Fast and hard. Cesare knew that way of falling in love – it had happened to him very often before he finally realized that there was only one true love in his life, and it was nobody new or exotic but the person he knew since the day she was born. Caterina, Ursula, Charlotte…oh, he had enjoyed them, as Micheletto surely had enjoyed that boy. Lust, not love.  
He would realize that soon enough.

Still, the desperation on his face bothered Cesare. He couldn't really have expected the allowance to die, and yet he had asked for it. That boy… that vile, womanish creature had found a way into what Cesare had thought to be his alone: Micheletto's heart.  
He shouldn't care about it – there were more important tasks at hand. Where there was a spy, there was a conspiracy. He really couldn't need more enemies right now. It was bad enough, if not unexpected, to have his father against him.  
It hurt more to have his mother against him, too. She had forgiven him whatever she suspected of his part in Juan's death, but she would never forgive what she took from the rumors of him and Lucrezia. It was clear she would not talk to him before he gave her another grandson – and Charlotte had to be the one giving birth to him.  
Which would, as he had promised his true love in the last night they'd shared, never happen.

There was another thing Cesare had always thought would never happen, yet now he wasn't so sure anymore. From the first day, despite his words, he had trusted Micheletto. He had never asked the assassin why he was so loyal to him – some questions better never were asked, and he knew that if he asked this one, he would stir things neither of them could cope with – but he had always, _always_, trusted Micheletto to be at his side.  
He trusted him more than anyone else, except maybe for Lucrezia. She was and kept his heart, while Micheletto was probably the only one knowing his soul. He had seen the abyss inside Cesare, and not backed away.  
Until now.

It was a restless night for the pope's son, and one of the loneliest in his life.  
Then the morning came.  
Micheletto did not.


	9. and a death for a death

"I can hate and love." When the words stumbled out of his mouth, hard and desperate, Micheletto knew he would die.  
So be it.  
His limbs felt numb as he made his way through the streets, barely noticing where he was going. Until tonight. When he would kill Pascal, for attempting to kill his master. For betraying both of them. For being but another demon with an angel's face. He would quench out the fire, wherever it had come from, and if the smoke choked him, so be it. He should have known better than to believe in a light without shadows.

"I can hate and love." He had done it all his life. All his life. Hated and loved his parents, his masters… even himself, somehow – there must be a bit of love to drag yourself so far through life. When he had found Cesare he had feared him, when he got to know him better he loved him, and when he saw how recklessly the Borgia acted, he thought he hated him. Maybe he did, a little.  
But worse than that, he understood him. He understood everything Cesare did, he knew what he thought, often before Cesare did himself – and it was not only his experience that enabled him to do so. It was because Cesare was Micheletto, and Micheletto was Cesare. A different education, a different family, a different future certainly – but they were the same.

Odi et amo. Cesare shoved the paper away, but the words remained, clear and bright before his eyes.  
Hate and love. "You can feel both at the same time, I've realized", Lucrezia had told him when she'd seen Sancha marrying Jofre, jealous and amazed by the southern beauty. Cesare had tried to soothe her, but he hadn't yet dared to tell her the truth: that no woman in the entire world was as beautiful as her.  
How could love ever be a sin? Was it his fault, or Lucrezia's, that they were both born by the same woman? If there was a god – not that he believed that tale anymore, but just in case, just if – if he in his power had created each and every soul on earth, surely he had also created Cesare's and Lucrezia's love for each other. If there was a god, surely it was his will that they lived and consummated their love.  
And if god didn't exist – well, than there was only earthly power to fear. And he was on his best way to become the mightiest lord around.  
That was, if Micheletto succeeded in saving him again.  
That was, if he had not pushed him too far this time.

Cesare knew the look the assassin had wanted to hide from him, he knew how it looked like to be absolutely lost. He had seen the same expression on his own face often enough before he finally had dared to make his love his own. Odi et amo – was there anyone who didn't know that feeling? Hate without love made you a monster, but love without hate made you a fool.  
Was he a fool to trust Micheletto so completely?

It had been easy to despise the man. A killer, changing sides as soon as a blade was pointed at him. Cesare had not believed for one second in Micheletto's ambition to serve the mightiest and cleverest; it had been fear for his life that made him offer himself to the Borgias. Later however, Cesare had realized that Micheletto had principles. Dark and twisted ones, but he remained loyal to them. Loyal to him. He had become his shadow, his other half – his darker half at first, but Cesare knew that while his glory was shining out, the light of it had darkened. He was no longer the pope's honored and honest son, no longer a beloved gentleman his city was proud of. He didn't even know which city was his in the moment.  
Still, Micheletto stayed with him. The dog who had begged for his life and a home – the friend who was just about to rip his heart out for Cesare.  
He must not do it.

Cesare leapt up and stormed down to the stables, roaring for his horse to be saddled. Of course, Pascal had to die, but it shouldn't be by Micheletto's hands. This at least he could do for him.

The spying boy, in the end, was just that: a boy. He had not foreseen his death in Rome. He cried with fear and begged for mercy, but not for long. Perhaps, Micheletto thought, he saw death in his eyes. There was no life left in him, it was only duty that kept him upright. He would kill Pascal to save Cesare, and therefore, Giovanni, and that cause was worth this sacrifice. Then he would leave Cesare's and his world.

"Do it." Pascal held out his hands, waiting for the blade. His skin was pale as ivory and smooth as silk. A last touch of heaven. When Micheletto sliced his wrists, Pascal's eyes turned as blank and lifeless as his own were. "Don't let me go" he whispered.  
"Never." His voice was hoarse, broken, but he held the boy in his arms as he fell, and one dying glance met another until Pascal's eyes closed and his body became a statue. The statue of an angel.  
Micheletto lay next to him on the ground, Pascal's blood on his hands and clothes, feeling nothing.

When the first ray of sunlight stole into the room and kissed the dead boy's forehead, he left without looking back.


	10. The Prince

Twenty men rode with Cesare, filling the streets with fire and the sound of hooves, looking for a shadow in the shadows.  
When the captain of his guard had asked Cesare where Micheletto lived he'd slapped him right in the face. It was not the business of a lord to know where each and every one of his men slept. What did he care what they did at night? What he did care about them at all?  
Of course, their search had been futile. Cesare had known it the moment he drove on his horse, galloping into a night that was almost as dark as his heart.  
It was too late. He had given the command long before sunset – by now, Pascal's dead body was cold. And the man who had killed him…

Cesare stood up, reaching for his cup to drown the surge of jealousy that wound up inside him every time he thought about the look in Micheletto's eyes. Pascal. A dirty little spy, one in a thousand the lords of Florence, Forlí or even his own father sent him.  
But this one… this one had been high in price. Micheletto had fought and killed for his master, but he had died for another. Died, or disappeared, it didn't really matter.  
He was lost to Cesare. Everything they had gone through, every bond between them – a bond that had only been strengthened by Micheletto's time with Lucrezia and Giovanni, as Cesare knew – cut.  
"For a nobody!" He hurled the cup against the wall, wine splattering the tapestry.  
A nobody with a girlish pretty face. Jealousy mixed with contempt as Cesare picked up the empty cup and saw his own twisted reflection in the shimmering gold. Obviously he was not Micheletto's type – too strong probably, too ruthless, too much of Micheletto himself. A face only Lucrezia loved, it seemed. The rest of the world feared it, probably despised it.  
Cesare closed his eyes, shutting out the sadness he had just glimpsed in them. He didn't care for the world. Their hate, their fear, their adoration maybe… he didn't care. Seeing his father favoring Juan in every possible way had hardened him against other's opinions. He had quickly learnt that man was not just, and neither was the world he had built. It was about strength and braveness, about daring to make a life and a way of one own no matter the people standing against you.

They'd returned after a few hours with nothing. Cesare had sent out thirty men in the morning, but he didn't doubt they would come back with nothing as well. Micheletto would not be found unless he wanted to.  
"My lord?" The servant blocked the door against a soldier, obviously more worried about the cleanness of the room than of the news Cesare saw shining on the other man's face. With a grunt he shoved the servant away and dragged the rider towards the stairs before he could even open his mouth. "Where is he? Did you talk to him? Will he talk to me?"  
Only when the rider's eyes went wide, Cesare realized he must sound like an impatient lover. Maybe he'd have to kill the man, later on. But not now. "Come on, are you…"  
"We… didn't find him, my lord." The rider's gaze dropped with shame and something deeper: fear. For a moment, Cesare allowed himself to bask in the strange feeling, then he shook the man's arm. "Then how dare you come back?"  
"We found his room, sir!" Now it had crept even into the man's voice. Fear. And contempt, for himself, not for Cesare. Contempt that he, a Roman, was afraid of a Spanish bastard.  
_His room._ He was curious how it would look like – if it carried traces of Micheletto's presence. If it carried traces of him… or of Pascal.  
Cesare grinned – at the news and at the man's obvious discomfort. "Good man. Let's go."

* * *

Pascal. He was everywhere, the stench of his blood so intense it almost made him turn back. Then he saw the bundle next to the marble white corpse.  
"No!" He knelt down, not wasting one look on the dead spy as he searched through the bundle, dreading to find another body. The relief not to find a dead Micheletto next to Pascal quickly vanished as he saw the blood around him. Micheletto had not only memorized the boy's betrayal but another word – one that hurt more than anything Cesare'd ever read before.  
_Goodbye_.

"My lord? Shall we…" The man's voice died at a quick wave of Cesare's hand. They all stood still like statues, waiting for his command to speak, to move, to die.  
He'd trade all of them for Micheletto. His whole army, his cities… in that moment, Cesare swore that he'd trade it all to wipe away the word that broke his world.  
Micheletto had abandoned him. Not like Ursula who had been too scared of her husband and of hell. Not like his father or his mother who could not condone Juan's blood on his hands.  
Micheletto had seen into the depths of Cesare's soul, he knew the darkness as well as the light – Lucrezia, Giovanni. They had shared those moments at the abyss, moments in heaven and in hell.  
Now Micheletto had abandoned him, had left him there waiting to fall.  
And of course, god was not there to hear his desperate plea. Of course.

"Can any of you replace him?" Cesare's voice was harsh with grief. "Don't even try to answer that!" He walked out without a look back, leaving the dead and his men behind. So be it. After all, Cesare had chosen his fate long before Micheletto had done so. He would not turn back from his plan just because the world didn't understand him. Forlí was waiting to be sacked, and he would do it – without Micheletto, as he had won many other cities without his father. Without god.  
On his own, the mightiest lord of all. The thought tasted bitter in his mouth today, but on his way back home, Cesare managed to forget about it. He didn't need help to destroy Caterina Sforza.

"Tell the men to get ready." He didn't know the name of the captain of his guard, and didn't want to. Chances were high the soldier would be dead in three days. Chances were high Micheletto already was dead.  
Another golden cup was smashed against the wall. This time, Cesare's glance followed the flight, hungrily waiting for the moment when the wine seemed to explode and cascade like a fountain of blood. No more brooding about the assassin's life. He had made his decision, he had left his master. Sparing his life was already a greater mercy than most people received from Cesare Borgia. He would not waste another thought on the man.  
"We'll ride tomorrow."  
_This_ was what he was born for.

* * *

"He will not get over our walls."  
"But if he does?"  
"He will not! I will gladly slaughter him myself. And if I can't do that – I will not be his prisoner. This I owe to my people. He will not have me." Caterina's eyes gleamed with fire despite the hunger haunting her city. Once again, Rufio could not help but bow in adoration. She was the proudest woman he'd ever seen, and the most stupid, and the bravest. Or maybe it was all the same. Either way he would not see her go down – that was the promise he'd given himself, right after the one to find and kill Micheletto. This one, rumor had it, he would probably not be able to keep. Micheletto had fled from Rome, people said. Rufio smiled. So the man had had a heart as well. It was the only weakness their kind could not allow themselves to have – but what would life be without a few… challenges? Obviously Cesare had broken Micheletto's heart.  
Rufio would not let the Borgia break his.  
"May I just suggest an alternative, my lady?", he asked smugly, hiding his fear. "Let me do the slaughtering for you. Wait for me to present you Cesare Borgia's head on a silver plate."  
"You wrong saint John by using this image for the Borgias", Caterina warned him, but the smile on her face showed her approval.  
"Let me kill him for you, my lady. Let me make him drown in his own blood."  
Caterina nodded graciously. "If that makes you happy, Rufio, I will gladly put his death into your hands. I just want it to be done."  
"It will be done, my lady." Rufio bowed again and kissed her hand. "I swear to you. It will be done."


	11. Roma eterna

_**Just watched the last season again… what a great show, and such wonderful characters in it. I like the way the finale brings a little closure at least to the main characters' state of mind, but… it's not enough. I want to know what the writers had in store for them in the next season, I want to know what the originally planned epic finale was going to be.  
But anyway – thank you very much for reading this story, especially to **_**coolCbeargrandma**_** – thank you so much for encouraging me. I hope I did Micheletto justice.  
And now I really hope you all enjoy the last chapter ;)**_

Micheletto walked through the camp, past tents and guards, into the darkness. Some men turned to look at him, greeted him even, but he ignored them as they had ignored him for years, ever since he had been cast out into the streets, a rat scramming off the sinking ship only to find itself in the midst of a cruel ocean. Boys had thrown stones at him before their mothers had pulled them away with wrinkled noses. Soldiers had kicked at him when they were drunk, cursed him when he robbed them… screamed and begged when he killed them.  
Now many of them would live because of what he had just told their master. Forlì would fall, not in three months but in two days. It seemed fit that Cesare, after having broken Micheletto's heart and smothered whatever future he could have hoped for, now should also destroy his past. Soon there would be nothing left of the house of Corella. They all would vanish from the earth and its memory, as if none of them had ever existed.  
At least in this, he would be close to Pascal.

When the night's blackness had drowned the campfires Micheletto fell to his knees, breathing heavily through tears yet unshed. Cesare's hand still seemed to lay heavily on his chest, right where Micheletto had asked him to feel for his heart. What a useless, cruel thing it was, a better instrument for torture than any chains or whips. It would not cease beating despite the ache in every cell, every moment. It was an ache Micheletto had known before, a hollowness that crowded the mind and poisoned the soul until nothing else could remain, until the universe was filled with emptiness. There was no place left for god, nor for anyone else. Not anymore.  
And yet, when he leant against a tree, Micheletto could not help seeing faces emerge from the darkness inside him.  
They had claimed him, used him, broken him… could he really have expected them to ever leave him?

Lucrezia who had played with him, just as she had been played with. Who would forever be torn between her ambitions as a Borgia – not to be satisfied with any place she was given but to always strive for more, whether it was power or the right to claim her brother as her lover – and the instinct of a mother to protect her child against every harm, to build a home for him to be safe. She needed both Giovanni and Cesare to be happy, and there was only one way she could have that: claiming her brother as her lover, making him a father to her son, making Giovanni someone Cesare would love, not feel threatened by.  
Because despite the fact that Cesare Borgia was the most audacious man Micheletto had ever seen, he was also one of the most vulnerable. And his weakness was clear to see, to all the world if they'd only take the time to look past his army: his family. The people who loved and hated Cesare, as much as he loved and hated each of them, even Lucrezia. He might not know it himself – Micheletto had not consciously known it until Pascal had read him the lines – but no feeling was pure. Where there was joy, there was the fear of losing it. Where there was love, there was the fear of not being worthy of it, and the jealousy that accompanied that thought.  
Where there was an angel, there was the fear he was not real.

As Pascal had turned out to be – not an angel but real, so real… his scent, his voice, his picture so deeply carved into Micheletto's memory it was impossible to ever return to his old life. The boy who had played with him, who had lost himself inside him, who had gouged him until nothing was left. Nothing except the dream Micheletto had allowed himself to dream – that the pretty boy could love him. And that he himself could fuck him without loving him back.

Leaving Cesare. The man who had given him a home, who had trusted him with the things most important to him. Who had made him destroy himself, but wasn't that what he had promised to do? To kill and die for his master.  
Of course, a blade or even cantarella was far less painful than having to break your heart with your own hands. Because no matter how wounded and dead he felt inside, his reflection in a puddle had shown him that he looked the same as three weeks before. Better than he had for most of his life, though he had never felt as hollow.  
Still…

Micheletto's hands fell to his sides, he slumped against the ground in the dark as had become a habit in the previous days. Every day he walked, aimlessly, and at night he tried to disappear where he stood, to become part of the nature surrounding him and never wake up again. Pascal kept haunting his dreams, making Micheletto dread and long for them.  
Tonight, however, sleep wouldn't find him. The other face proved stronger tonight, the face that didn't allow him to give in and wait for death.

When the morning broke, Micheletto finally accepted the truth. He hadn't crossed the papal army accidentally. And he hadn't helped Cesare to pay off his debts to him.  
He had searched for the Borgia, as a dog always searched for his master, no matter how hard he'd struck him down. He had not run away to die because he was not ready to die. He wished he was, he wished he could finally give in to the pain of being lonely and damned, but he couldn't. Not as long as there were pieces of his heart still intact, still in need of him.  
Giovanni. Lucrezia would do whatever it took but in the end she was a woman. While she surely didn't lack skill or audacity, she might lack means. And the boy was a Borgia… he would not stay as innocent as he was now. Something so pure couldn't endure long in this world, it either died or putrefied. Like Pascal.

Unlike Cesare, who had not once claimed to be pure, not even before he himself had realized his desire for his sister. He was an angel of death and war, a demon older than the Roman church. And obviously, he was still in need of Micheletto, he would always be in need of him – because there were some sides in him not even Lucrezia would understand, some plans the world would never forgive.  
Cesare had crossed the border from bastard to heir, from a man of the church to a man of steel already – and mostly on his own. But he would not become Italy's greatest lord without help. Micheletto halted as he heard the first cannon fly, then the second. This was his doing as much as Cesare's. This time the brain part was his while the Borgia was providing the arm, absolutely trusting the assassin to lead him to success.  
For a moment Micheletto felt senseless rage surging through his body, a rage he hadn't felt since his last time in Forlì. How could, how dared Cesare trusting him like that? How could he expect Micheletto to help him, to win his battles, to not slaughter him in the middle of the night after all he'd made him do?  
Every now and then, these questions had wound themselves into Micheletto's mind, as if challenging him to betray his master – and when Cesare had ordered him to kill Pascal, he had thought about it. For one moment.  
But he couldn't. He wouldn't betray the Borgia for a spy who had abused him in more ways than Micheletto cared to count. He wouldn't betray him for his own life. The world would remember Cesare Borgia as a cruel, ambitious man, a godless man, maybe as the devil himself – and for all the assassin knew, the world would be right. But there was something else, something nobody would remember but him: that Cesare Borgia was the only person on earth who had never lied to him. Not when it came to his own darkest desires, not when it came to the most difficult task he needed Micheletto to do. He had hit him, threatened him, yelled at him, ordered him to risk torture and death… but he had never betrayed his servant.

And Micheletto would never betray his master.

A day's march away from Rome, he blended in with the whores and fools trailing behind the soldiers. Only an old woman seemed to notice him but when he caught her glance she backed away, hiding in a crowd of others like her – old, poor, lonely. Most of them looked as if they had already given up on themselves; they were not spying or fighting for anyone. They had no home, no hope, no future – except, it seemed, to see Rome and die. After all, it still was the city where Peter had chosen to found the church. Or at least some clever lord had claimed this was the place, nobody would ever know. As nobody would know the fate of the hundreds that disappeared in the narrow streets, sinking into the stone, swimming beneath the Tiber. Dust was the future waiting for the people around Micheletto, one way or the other: dust and ashes, hunger and pain.  
And he had wanted to become the same.

He returned to his old rooms, not a secret refuge anymore but still safe enough; from all they knew, only Cesare's men knew the place and they would not come there to look for him again. They'd search him in the lands and woods around Forlì, if they searched at all… he didn't think they would. Not only because of the defeated, pained voice with which Cesare had bid him goodbye – a voice that showed everything Micheletto had felt in this moment – but also because of one of the prisoners. A man clothed in black, with pale skin and quick eyes, and, most disturbingly, a smile on his thin lips as he was dragged through the streets.  
Rufio.  
Micheletto had heard of the man, a stranger to this country, come from the north. Rumor about him had traveled even faster than the assassin himself, and through the various fantasies and legends some things reappeared unchanged, some things that most certainly were true: that Rufio loved killing, that he was living only to take lives. An artist, some said, with his own vision of how the world should be. It was that vision that frightened Micheletto as he saw the man being brought to the cells underneath the papal district – assassins were not supposed to have their own mind. Their thoughts, yes. Their own secrets to kill, their own ways to foresee what their victim might do to escape… but not their own mind to think about who the victim should be.  
Maybe he was a demon, too, or another angel of death… maybe they all were.  
But what did that say about him, who was only a dog, had always been, and would always be?

Like that dog, Micheletto strode through the city at night, unheard and unseen as he had done often in the previous years. Rome was a powerful city, a greedy city, not a watchful one. The papal army had just won a war, they did not look for another one inside the walls. In the streets, people were celebrating the great and quick victory. In their houses, quietly, they were praising the strength and pride of Caterina Sforza.  
No, it was not over. Maybe it had only just begun, and as Micheletto thought of Giovanni living inside a city that was brooding with hate while his uncle and even his mother saw nothing but the glory of bringing down Forlì he felt his heart being smothered again, held by an iron fist that wouldn't let him breathe. He had felt the same way when he'd realized Pascal was a spy. He had known, deep inside, that Cesare would – needed to – order him to kill the boy when he brought the first letter.  
But Pascal, what reasons he might have had for it, had been a traitor. A spy. An enemy to the Borgias.  
Giovanni was not. He was a child, innocent as can be, and yet he would be shown even less mercy than Micheletto had shown Pascal.  
It was not over.

Twelve nights after his return to Rome, it happened. Micheletto could barely step back into the shadows when suddenly Rufio emerged, unguarded and smiling. Micheletto followed him for a while, then fell back and chose a different route, knowing where he would find the other assassin.

"Finally. I was starting to think you've lost me." Rufio's smile shone through his voice, mocking and rejoicing at the same time.  
Micheletto straightened up as he checked the other for weapons. Rufio was taller than him, but more delicately built – like Pascal, a soft voice inside him whispered, heavy with longing, but he pushed it back – a true artist, needing his audience. Good.  
"Are you in a hurry, mylord?" His voice was hoarse, he hadn't talked since Forlì.  
Rufio's smile grew. "Mylord? I have to admit, Micheletto, you do surprise me. I wasn't expecting such courtesy from a Borgia dog. But then", he walked backwards, gesturing to Cesare's palace, "I wasn't expecting to become one, either. And there I am." He shook his head in mock surprise. "How the world can change in one night. Isn't that… funny? One night you're safe in your lover's arms, and the next day…"  
Micheletto froze, fists up. Rufio seized the opportunity to slide through the door but before he could close it, the other man was behind him, grabbing his collar, obviously still unable to speak. Rufio held his glance, still smiling. "Oh yes. I was there. I saw the two of you… an interesting pairing indeed."  
Micheletto gave a grunt and pulled him closer, deeper into the shadows where the guards – surely Cesare had some walking around – would not see them. He would kill Rufio. He would kill him.  
Silently the two assassins started to fight, each reaching for the other's throat with one hand and pulling out their daggers with the other.  
"I've been waiting for this", Rufio hissed, the smile finally gone, "to kill you when you were standing. I could've done it more than once when you slept."  
"You should have done it then", Micheletto spit back, blinded with hate. Rufio was fast and seemed not nearly as tired as he felt himself but it didn't matter. He would kill him. For Pascal. For himself.  
"Why?" Rufio backed away panting. "I've become you all the same. I am you as you once were me. Now you're nothing. Your time was over when you fucked that boy for the second time. I don't think he liked it half as much as you, by the way. He called it…" Micheletto's knife slid up but Rufio stopped it while slowly retreating to the garden, "being in bed with the devil. Where I come from that's not exactly a compliment, you know. But then I saw he'd fallen for you. I offered him the chance to kill you, and he refused. Probably just the moment of weakness that caused his death…"  
Micheletto flung himself at the other man, stabbing at whatever he found.  
Cloth. Metal crashing against metal. The artist wore an armour.

He saw the knife too late to ward it off. His heart felt smashed for good as he collapsed in front of Rufio, his sight blurry with tears of both pain and a strange kind of exhilaration. Now it was over.  
Rufio knelt down next to the fallen man, his knee on Micheletto's arm so the knife in his hand dropped open, searching though his trousers and boots while his victim lay dying.  
"I'm disappointed, Micheletto", he said, spitting blood and saliva through a long gash in his cheek. "I'd thought you were my double. But you're not… Cesare trust me now. He will no longer need you. I will serve this world better than you did. I…" He shook his head and stood up, looking down at Micheletto one last time. "It's not love that made you weak. Weakness has always been in you. There is no excuse for it. If you're strong, your love also is, and you will not let it be taken away. You should've known that, both of you."  
Spitting at Micheletto, he disappeared.

Micheletto felt his thoughts trailing away with the warm liquid on his cheek, all sinking into the earth, cold and tired and begging for eternal peace… but once again, sleep wouldn't find him_. It's not love that made you weak… there is no excuse for it… _it sounded like something Cesare would say. But then, Cesare _had_ to believe there was a way to bed his sister officially. He had to believe he could win anything, or he would lose everything.  
Lucrezia… Giovanni… Pascal… Cesare. Giovanni.  
Whom did Rufio carry in his heart?  
_I am you… _

The iron fist clenched his whole body as Micheletto bolted upright, shivering. Rufio was right, he was Micheletto, at least in this: loyalty. He could have left Forlì, he could have joined the Borgias, or the Spains, the Turks... people like him, like Micheletto, had erased every inherited loyalty, they chose their masters themselves. There was no rational reason for someone like Rufio to serve the duchess of Forlì when he could also serve the sultan or the pope.  
But reason didn't make the world go round. Greed did, and loyalty.  
_I will serve this world better than you did… _It was not hard to guess what the assassin of Caterina Sforza meant with that.  
He was not in Cesare's palace to serve him, but to kill him. And then, very likely… the pope. Lucrezia. And, as Cesare had killed Caterina's son, she would have Rufio kill Giovanni. No mercy for children.

It was that thought, that and the faces of dead babies in his mind that somehow made Micheletto drag himself on, through the garden to the stables and the stairs hidden there. He had to kill Rufio, but not to avenge Pascal or himself… neither of them counted.  
_If you do exist help me save them._ A part of Micheletto wondered why, after all this time, he started praying again – as if there could be a benevolent god with all that happened – but the other part just kept begging fervently. _Make me your weapon and let me kill him, help me stop him before he can hurt the child and its mother. The child. And Cesare. Take whatever you want from me but make me save them._

Both hands pressed against the wound he reached the corridor that led to Cesare's chambers. Two guards were slumped against the wall next to a slightly opened door. Micheletto grunted approvingly at their sacrifice – he had advised Cesare to put up this masquerade; he had often wondered how some lords – targets – made it for their enemies to find them at night. Still, Rufio would look under the sheets after he'd killed the decoy (a smith who was well paid for sleeping in silk, if not really well enough to die), and two rooms later he would find the one he really wanted. Whom he needed dead, just like Micheletto needed Rufio dead before he could hope to find peace. The other assassin was right. They were the same. Rufio and Micheletto, Micheletto and Cesare – perhaps even Cesare and Caterina, only that she was a woman. Like Lucrezia. Deadly like her.

_Let me kill him. Let me save them._ Shaking and hardly able to breathe, Micheletto hurried to his master's room. _I've given you my soul long ago._ Was he praying to god or the devil? And did it matter? _Let me kill him. Let me save them!_

"Who…" Cesare's eyes widened when he recognized the bloody man rushing into his chambers. "Micheletto!" The sword, pointed at the intruder's head, fell onto the cushions as he saw the origin of the blood. "Great god" he whispered and, without a moment's hesitation, pulled his friend onto the bed. "Help! I need some help!" The roar of the Borgia brought on more men, and lights. In a few moments, the whole palace would be awake. "Stay with me, Micheletto." Cesare pressed his hands tightly around the dagger that still was stuck in Micheletto's chest. "I will not let you leave me again!"  
_You can't hinder me._ Micheletto didn't dare to give up his last ounce of power to speak but Cesare knew enough about battle wounds to realize his own lie. Suddenly there were tears in the Borgia's eyes. "What happened? Why did you come back?" Not even now Cesare seemed to realize that his life was in danger.  
The door opened.  
Gripping his master's sword with both hands, Micheletto threw himself between him and Rufio, groaning with pain as he thrust the blade right into the other's throat. Rufio collapsed, surprise and fear on his face, right into the arms of a guard opening the door.  
Dead.

Micheletto fell, too, leaving the sword in the other man's body. Strong arms held him before his head could hit the cold floor, and then there was it again, one last time, the face that had haunted his waking hours and would not let him die.  
Until now.  
"Micheletto." Cesare shook his head, his hands shivering as he stroked the broken man's hair. "You should never have come back."  
Somewhere inside, he found a smile. "You shouldn't have trusted this man."  
"I didn't", Cesare said, "not like I trusted you. There can never be anyone like you." He leant forward until their foreheads touched. "Forgive me, Micheletto. Please."  
"I already have." Unable to hold on, Micheletto slumped deeper into Cesare's embrace, his eyes closed.  
Cesare started to sob. "Micheletto!"  
"Take care of… all of you, my lord."

Cesare bit his lips. "I will. I swear by god I will."  
So they had found god, after all. And he had listened.  
They were safe. He had saved them.

For a moment, Micheletto felt light, filled with endless relief.  
Then it was over.


End file.
